‘Have you got what I came for?’
‘Yeah, course. Been looking after her for you.’ She pointed to the corner. Wallace dragged the big cardboard box out. It was heavy. Knelt and took a penknife from his pocket, cut the tape. ‘So, where you been?’ she adjusted the vest top under her apron.
‘Away.’ Obviously she hadn’t been watching the news. He opened the flaps, checked inside. Bambam was lying on her stomach, paws extended ahead. Fine dark grey fur was perfectly preserved. Smaller than her brother Blaze but with the same sleek face. Wallace pointed to the brass winding key protruding from the bullet wound in the top of her skull, turned to Winberg. ‘What’s that?’
‘Soz, couldn’t resist putting something in the hole. She’s a beauty. Bag’s inside the shell, like you wanted. Made it from a polyurethane cast with wire support. Strong as hell.’ She bent down, gave a coy smile. ‘What’s in it then?’
Wallace leaned forward, their faces inches apart. ‘I didn’t pay you a grand to ask questions.’ His thumb stroked the penknife blade. Her smile vanished but she didn’t seem scared. Oblivious rather than brave. He tried lifting the box. No way he could get this thing on the bus, not without drawing a lot of attention. ‘You got a car?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Give you fifty quid to drive me and the dog to my storage spot.’
‘Alright.’ Winberg’s response was instant. The trade in mutilated animals hadn’t picked up while he was inside then. ‘Now?’
Wallace nodded and she grabbed a bunch of keys, began removing her apron. He sheathed the penknife, hoped she didn’t get any more inquisitive.
* * *
Jones arranged her briefing notes. It was past three, but Boateng didn’t look ready for the meeting yet. She scanned the office, wondered briefly if she’d got the time wrong, missed some unwritten rule. Normally her boss was all over it, ready before them. His gaze was fixed on Wallace’s mugshot, in the centre of the large whiteboard. Boateng just stood staring at their target through puffy eyes, arms hanging limp. Looked exhausted. Hadn’t touched the coffee Malik made in his favourite mug. She’d expected the MIT to be stressful, but this looked like something more.
Malik and Connelly pulled chairs over, Connelly insisting on a steaming mug of tea despite the afternoon’s warmth. The Irishman was explaining the phrase ‘trot a mouse’ to Malik, referring to tea so dark and strong the little creature could walk across it. At least the other two thought there was a meeting as well.
She cleared her throat gently. ‘Are we starting, Zac?’
‘What do you want now?’ he snapped.
Wow. Didn’t see that coming. Normally he was so chilled. ‘I was just asking about the meeting,’ she said, more tentatively. ‘Um, are you OK?’
‘Sorry,’ he muttered, rasping a hand across chin stubble as he sat down slowly. ‘Yeah, let’s start.’
Jones waited for instructions that didn’t arrive. ‘Shall I update on the mystery man first?’
‘You’ve got a new boyfriend?’ Connelly grinned, and she rolled her eyes. Should’ve seen that coming. Before she could think of a reply, Malik cut in.
‘Shut up, Pat.’ He scowled. ‘Let her speak.’
‘It’s not you, is it, big man?’ Connelly winked.
‘Piss off.’
Malik was sweet, she liked him. Fit, too. And he seemed keen. Should she…? Jones wasn’t sure about dating a younger guy. Particularly one she sat opposite all day in the office. On the other hand, Malik had a lot more going for him than the losers she often seemed to draw: drunken lads on nights out with her mates, friends of friends who flaked and bailed, or blokes off Tinder who never matched their descriptions. It was a source of ongoing embarrassment to her that in a city with five million men she couldn’t find a decent boyfriend. The working hours didn’t help, and maybe the job title put some guys off. Perhaps that was why most police ended up getting together with each other, single or not. For now she was determined to keep her love life out of work. Nonetheless, she gave Malik a little smile.
‘Ash came in earlier and checked security footage from outside the dance studio,’ Jones said, glancing at her notes. ‘Reckons the guy who goes in after Wallace could be the same man that broke into his caravan. I’ve contacted Ministry of Defence on the basis of his SAS theory, gave the description and year we think he served at Hereford. They shut it down immediately, said the identities of Special Forces personnel were secret even after they’ve left the regiments. When I told them it was a murder inquiry, they asked if he was a suspect. I had to say no, just a possible witness. They didn’t budge.’ She paused. No reaction. ‘Boss?’
‘Great,’ replied Boateng.
‘No, it’s not.’ She frowned. ‘We don’t have a clue who he is.’
Boateng seemed to wake up, focus. ‘Sorry, I mean, good work following it through. I’ll go back to Krebs, get her to take it up the hierarchy for us.’
‘Don’t hold your breath,’ said Connelly. ‘Military look after their own.’
‘At least it’s a lead,’ said Boateng. ‘I’ll take anything right now. Bringing Ash in kept Krebs happy for a day, but we met an hour ago and she bollocked me for not knowing more about Wallace.’ He shook his head.
Jones felt for him, taking the flak. ‘But Ash didn’t have anything to give except his intel on the soldier.’
‘That’s not how she sees it.’
Connelly broke the silence. ‘Nas and I were down in Crystal Palace this morning, spoke to a bunch of people. Found an old fella that lives near Ash’s pitch. Once his false teeth were in, he told us a man matching the soldier’s description came by yesterday looking for Ash. Backs up the story. Nothing else though.’
Boateng bit his lip, nodded slowly.
‘It’s not all doom and gloom,’ offered Malik. ‘Something just came in from Surrey Police. Get this. Animal cemetery in Cobham had a grave desecrated last night. Manager said they’d never seen anything like it. Massive greyhound coffin dug up, broken open, bones just chucked on the side. Staff couldn’t get hold of the owner, so reported it straight to police. Lucky for us, Guildford’s finest had nothing else to do, so they put the owner’s name through the national system and found it flagged by us.’ He leaned back, smiled. ‘Darian Wallace.’ Malik snapped his fingers.
Boateng sat bolt upright. ‘His share of the safe deposit box stash, has to be. Hidden in a grave. Of course.’ Hands gripped his knees, eyes darting around. ‘It’s been done before.’
‘Hatton Garden raid, couple of years ago,’ said Jones. ‘Guy used his father-in-law’s grave. Didn’t dig up the body though.’ She was chuffed at recalling the fact, but Boateng didn’t acknowledge it. Just sat still, said nothing.
‘What do you reckon that means, boss?’ ventured Malik.
Boateng spoke quietly. ‘It means I don’t have much time.’
‘I?’ Last Jones checked this was a Major Investigation Team.
‘We.’ He glanced at her. ‘We haven’t got much time. He’s probably going to flee the country. No reason for him to stay here any longer.’ Boateng numbered off on his fingers. ‘We’ve had Wallace’s picture on telly and in the papers last few days, so it’s risky for him to be out much. He can’t get to Ash since we’ve stuck him in the hostel round the corner to keep out the way. And it sounds like he’s got the loot now too.’
‘Should we brief UK Borders again?’ suggested Jones.
‘Definitely. Pat, see if Wallace crops up on any train station cameras coming back into London from Surrey. Might tell us where he went.’
Jones raised a hand. ‘What about the MP? Ash said it was a woman. That narrows it down to around two hundred possibles. I can cross-reference with the safe deposit burglary report from 2014, find the match. Could go and speak to her?’